Wizen

By Sonali Kar

The pale, dusty mirror had captured a gleeful reflection after months of neglect. Meera was unusually joyful today. Her routine began early—she draped herself in a pastel yellow saree, one that felt like a soft echo from another time. There was an elegance to her reflection, the quiet grace of an Indian beauty. Coal-black kajal traced the warmth of her brown eyes. A layer of talc softened the smile lines that peeked through. Her chapped lips wore a bolder colour than usual. Glass bangles chimed softly as she adjusted the bindi above the silver strands now threading through her hair.

Who would guess she was a mother of two?

She hummed while preparing a savoury breakfast, her eyes drifting to the man who had just stirred at the blare of the alarm. He moved in haste—skipping his shower, brushing past her voice with half-heard responses. When he asked for his pressed shirt and tea, she smiled faintly, already knowing.

She stepped out with a graceful gait, balancing his plate with care, the smell of warm ghee trailing behind her. But his eyes were fixed on the glow of his phone.

She lingered—waiting—for a word, a glance, anything.

But he left.

The plate sat half-eaten. The tea untouched, dangerously close to the edge of the table.

He forgot her. Again.

The door thudded shut. Meera sank into the chair, her saree pleats folding into her lap. She leaned her head back and exhaled—a slow, tired sigh—as the silence settled in like an old companion.

She rose quickly, pulled by the rhythm of a day that made no exception for sentiment. Curtains flailed inward with the monsoon breeze. A downpour was gathering. But no storm outside could rival the quiet one in her chest.

She collapsed onto the bed. Her breath faltered. A tear slid down her cheek as her gaze found the wall. One photograph stood out—Meera, younger, in the same yellow saree, beside a freshly-shaven Arjun. They were barefoot, caught mid-laughter, on the very ground where they had once met.

---

It was the bleak December of 2013.

A younger Meera stood in the heart of Lucknow, beneath the archways of an old mansion tucked along a bustling bazaar. Outside, an electric pole loomed above a milling shop and telephone booth—both owned by her father.

Inside, the home pulsed with joint family life: clanking vessels, a terrace shout, a radio tune tangled with street buzz. Meera—chatty and quick-footed—burst out the main door, a blur against the rhythm of old Lucknow.

In one hand, a small Nokia phone. A college bag slung loosely. Her fitted kurta danced with block-printed motifs. Her jhumkas caught the winter sun.

She picked up the call, breathless, and hissed, “Didn’t I tell you not to call me at home? I almost got caught!”

A soft chuckle crackled through. “Sorry, sorry,” said Arjun. “Come to the left alley—I’ve been waiting.”

He stood by his bike, a loosely wrapped parcel tucked under his arm. “Come on,” he said, voice low but firm. She climbed on behind him, pulling her dupatta tightly across her face. Just another girl disappearing into a crowd where love still needed to hide.

They wove through the narrow lanes of Lucknow—past rickshaws, chai stalls, peeling film posters. These stolen rendezvous had become routine. Even in hiding, Meera smiled. She wrapped her arms around his waist, anchoring herself to his pace.

He spoke over the engine. “Still no openings. Might take longer.”

There was frustration in his voice—but not doubt.

“I’ll get there. One day, I’ll come to your door—not as a boy with promises, but as the man who’ll marry you.”

And she had believed him.

---

Back in the present, memory and reality blurred. Meera turned restlessly in bed, eyes settling on a frame by the table. She reached for it.

Her father's voice returned to her—not in speech, but in silence.

A dignified man, deeply rooted in tradition, he had raised her alone, cycling through rain just so she could attend an English-medium school—when everyone else called it indulgence.

The day he found out about Arjun, he said nothing. And that nothing was devastating. His silence was final.

He didn’t raise a hand. Didn’t shout.

But his eyes said everything.

---

Meera had run anyway. Eloping had never been Arjun’s choice. He’d resisted. But caste and class lines are not easy to cross. His ambition wasn’t just personal—it was a weapon, a means to stand tall before a society that measured men by bank balance and surname.

But youth is a mirage of passion. And in that moment, she chose flight.

Not the love of her father, not the blooming garden of her childhood, not the veranda where she learned to dream—nothing held her back.

If only she had stayed. If only she had waited to be chosen instead of choosing.

But wasn’t it her vision he had simply obliged?

---

Over time, reality dulled the thrill.

The streets that once whispered love now whispered doubts. Her new home wasn’t unkind, but it was unfamiliar. Arjun’s mother accepted her, but unspoken differences lingered.

Still, they stood together. Or so she thought.

She searched the shelf for a photograph. Perhaps the wedding one. Was it lost, or simply hidden too well?

Arjun's ambitions expanded—real estate, foreign ventures, dream cities. His orbit grew wider. Hers stayed the same. Somewhere in between, she had stopped asking herself what she wanted.

She only knew she wanted to be a mother.

To her, motherhood wasn’t duty. It was redemption. A child, she believed, would soften the silence between her and her father. Would heal what love had frayed.

And so, they had a son—Arman.

Arjun, hesitant at first, became an avid father. More than that, he became a provider. A mirror to her own father. But in being everything to their son, he was no longer hers.

Their dreams grew dust-covered. Travelogues forgotten. Kashmir, Europe, even the nearby hill stations—left behind in a diary they never opened again.

Now, those memories weren’t comforting.

They were haunting.

---

What if she had never met him?

What if her father hadn’t fought so hard?

What if society had been kinder?

What if she had never become a mother?

What if...?

The doorbell rang. Sharp. Interrupting.

She blinked.

Rising too quickly, her hip nudged the shelf. A portrait fell. The glass cracked clean through the middle.

A familiar voice called from outside, faintly—

“Meera?”

The wind rushed in.

And in the quiet above it all, one frame remained hanging—

A younger Arjun, wreathed in marigolds.

By Sonali Kar